No Humans Involved (4 page)

Still, I'd have to deal with Tansy sooner or later, and deep down, I knew that what was really keeping me out of that garden tonight was fear. Not of the spirit who'd slapped me, but the possibility that
no
spirit had slapped me. That I was finally losing it.

Madness is the legacy of this "gift"—one that gives me more nightmares with each passing year. Jeremy was helping me to deal with this. He has some experience with psychic phenomena himself, and there's no one better for laying out logical arguments. Not every necromancer goes mad, he pointed out. I'd never denied or overused my power, as was often the cause of the madness. I was otherwise healthy and I had a good support network.

But every time I'm convinced I'm overreacting, that I'm going to
drive
myself crazy by worrying about going crazy, I see my strong, stubborn grandmother who died strapped to a bed, being fed like an infant, ranting about ghosts even I couldn't see. Then after helping Jeremy in Toronto last fall, I had another image to add—that of a necromancer driven so insane she could barely pass for human.

As hard as I clung to Jeremy's reasonable words, I felt my confidence slipping… and imagined my sanity slipping with it. So, while part of me said, "You're not going crazy, so make contact with this ghost and prove it," another, quieter but more persuasive part said, "Isn't it better just to tell yourself you
could
make contact, if you tried hard enough?"

No. I wouldn't give in to the fear.

I took my necromancy bag from its hiding place and snuck downstairs.

Sick Puppies

I FOUND A GOOD PLACE in the garden—on the other side of a wooden bridge where I'd hear the footsteps of any night walkers coming my way. No one should be surprised to see a spiritualist conducting a ritual, even at 2 a.m., but people like their summonings neat and tidy, with flowery words, herbs and incense. A true necromancer crosses the boundary between this world and the next and for that, I need the remnants of death.

There's no preset list of items every necromancer uses. It's like a recipe for stew—we take a few common ingredients, test out the variations our families pass along, then add and subtract through trial and error until we have what seems to work best for us.

First, I removed an old piece of grave cloth—a relic handed down from Nan, who claimed it came from a Roman emperor. Walk into a necromancy shop and
everything
comes from a Roman emperor or Egyptian queen or African prince. It doesn't matter. The power the individual held in life has no bearing on an object's power. It just makes a better story.

Next vervain, an herb burned to help contact traumatized spirits. Then dogwood bark and dried mate to ward off unwanted spirits and prevent summoning demonic entities. Considering how this spirit was acting, I added an extra helping of the banishing mixture.

I took out a tied bunch of hair. Different hairs, from different people at different stages of life, from infant to elderly, some for each sex. These came from the living. The advantage to hair is that because it's dead cells, I don't need to harvest it from the deceased.

Finally came the true remnants of the grave. A finger joint. A toe. An ear. Bits of bone. Teeth. The bone and teeth were ancient relics, also from my grandmother, also purported to have some wild and glorious history. With the flesh artifacts, I wasn't so lucky. To be potent they had to be fresh. Fresh, thankfully, is a relative term when you're talking about decomposing corpses. But after a year, they had to be burned and the ashes added to a jar. Then they had to be replaced.

I laid them on the grave cloth as prescribed, then put the jar of ashes in the middle.

If Bradford Grady come strolling back here and found me arranging bits of flesh and bone in a symbolic pattern, he'd fall on his knees, thinking he'd finally found concrete evidence of the satanic. Dark magic does exist, but not in the form he imagines. Satanic cults and devil worship belong in the realm of the mentally ill, the attention-deprived and the foolishly desperate. The power of magic lies in the blood. Without that blood, they can't use the power, no matter how many cats they sacrifice.

Now it was time to start the summoning. First I'd test to make sure this wasn't another vampire. I took a container from my bag and removed two locks of hair. I kept them separate to guard against loss. Vampires are the rarest of the races and I only know two.

Like Jeremy and I, Cassandra and Aaron served as delegates on the interracial council, a body of volunteers from each supernatural race who work together on problems that affect us all. When I'd asked Cassandra for a lock of her hair, she'd looked at me as if I was asking her to lop off a body part. Aaron had handed his over willingly, and would always provide more, but I liked having samples from both genders, so I was taking good care of Cass's.

I arranged the hairs. Almost the moment I finished preparing, fingers glided along my arm, as if the spirit had been waiting patiently the whole time.

"Can you hear me?"

The whispering began, distant and off to my left. Something brushed my arm. A finger poked my cheek. At the same time, a third hand lifted a lock of my hair, and the hairs on my neck rose as I realized this meant there was more than one spirit.

I conducted the vampire test. Hands kept touching me, voices whispering, but nothing changed.

"Can you hear me?" I said. "Can give me some sign that you understand?"

The touches stayed gentle, like the voices, as if whoever was on the other side knew I was working hard to make contact. I repeated the ritual using the regular hair and entreated the spirits to speak or otherwise make themselves known. They just continued the whispering and touching. I redid the ritual. Twice. No change.

I dumped my purse, laying out a pen and paper and scattering some other items. I even smoothed a patch of dirt for finger-writing. The vampire ghost, Natasha, had been able to move objects, and had conveyed "charades"-type messages. Maybe that would work.

The touching and whispering had stopped as soon as I'd emptied my purse, as if the spirits were puzzling over the meaning of this new activity.

"Is there some way you can communicate? Write something on the paper or in the dirt?"

I demonstrated by writing my name on the paper, then in the dirt. The whispering and prodding stopped, but as soon I ceased writing, it resumed.

"Move something. Anything. Just show me you can."

Again, they stopped, this time for almost a minute, but nothing in the pile moved. I shifted the items, encouraging and demonstrating. They'd pay attention, then go back to touching me.

Time to call in the big guns.

From my purse, I took out a plain silver ring. It belonged to my spirit contact, Eve Levine. To summon her, I needed an object that had been significant to her in life. The ring had been a gift from her daughter's father, Kristof, and Eve and I had had to work with her teenage daughter, Savannah, to track down and get access to a safety deposit box.

Until three years ago, I'd known Eve only by reputation. A bad reputation, as the kind of witch you didn't want to cross. By the time I met her daughter, Eve was dead, which should normally make a relationship impossible, but in my case is no impediment. When Eve had needed a necro, she came to the one who knew Savannah, and to our mutual shock, we became friends. Now, when I needed ghostly help, I called on her.

But this time she didn't answer. No surprise. For months each year, Eve was gone and couldn't explain where, one of the many mysteries of the afterlife that ghosts were forbidden to discuss with the living. In an emergency, I could use the ring to summon Kristof, and he'd get a message to her, but this wasn't urgent, and I wasn't keen to summon Kristof Nast otherwise.

TROUBLED BY my failure in the garden, I didn't get much sleep. When I finally gave up and got out of bed the next morning, I had a text message from Elena:
I didn't want to wake you. Said you bad a party last night. Call when you can
.

"Hey," Elena said when I called. "Jeremy's upstairs putting the kids down for a nap."

"I hear you have a couple of sick puppies."

She laughed. "That we do. Oh, and your delivery came this morning. Their first bunnies! Kate's already trying to chew an ear off. Clay's so proud."

"No bunny chewing for Logan?"

"Too crude. He's been examining his carefully. Clay says he's trying to find its weak spots."

A door banged open and Clay's voice rumbled something I couldn't make out.

"Jeremy's on his way down," Elena said. "And in a few hours, he'll be on his way there. The kids are doing much better. Just a cold, like I kept telling everyone."

Clay's voice sounded in the background, more a growl than a rumble.

"Oh, they'll be fine," Elena said.

"Logan's coughing again." Clay's voice came clear.

"It's not fatal." An exasperated sigh as she came back to me. "Pain in the—"

She gave a squeal that made me jump. The phone clattered to the floor. Elena shrieked a reminder that she was on the phone—or supposed to be. The phone clattered again, as if being recovered.

"Tell her I'm sorry," Elena called from the distance. "And Clay apologizes for being rude."

"I do?"

"Profusely."

"Take it outside," Jeremy said. "The babies are trying to sleep, and you could both use the fresh air."

"Sorry," Jeremy said as their voices faded. "They've been cooped up inside, worrying about the babies, and they're going a little stir crazy. Elena told you they're doing better?"

"She did. But Clay still seems worried. Maybe you should—"

"He'll be fine, and I'll be on my way soon. So how was the party?"

I tried to emphasize the humor of the situation, but when I finished he asked whether there was more.

"You sound tired," he said. "Which I could chalk up to the late night, but…"

"Sounds more like a
sleepless
night, huh?"

I told him everything.

"If you can't contact Eve, try Paige and Lucas," he said. "Elena talked to Paige last night, and they're both home. I could—"

"You concentrate on getting here. I'll make the calls."

He promised to phone back when he had an ETA, and we signed off.

Reprieve For Eve

I SPENT TOO MUCH TIME fussing with my wardrobe that morning. I was supposed to be wearing a burnt orange crepe tank top with a chocolate brown pencil skirt and a matching fitted jacket—the kind of thing you'd see in an old noir film. Sexy and sophisticated with a fun, retro twist. The look suited me, which is always a relief. There's nothing worse than finding a fabulous new style in the fashion mags and rushing out to track it down, only to realize it made you look like a frumpy middle-aged suburbanite or, worse yet, a frumpy middle-aged suburbanite who still thinks she's a smoking twenty-year-old.

But should I wear it today, when I might not see Jeremy until evening? Or save it for then? Not so much a burning dilemma as a way to postpone facing my colleagues until I was certain I was awake and focused on the task of winning them over. Finally, after taking it all off and trying on a couple of alternatives, I put on the original outfit and went downstairs.

!

AS I approached the dining room, the silence made me check my PDA to make sure I hadn't screwed up my schedule. Another three steps and I caught the murmur of low voices. Angelique sat alone on one side of the table, Grady and Claudia on the other, whispering together and ignoring Angelique.

The dead man now hung through a plate of melon slices. I tried to ignore him.

"Good morning," I said as I slid into a seat.

Grady hesitated only a moment before good manners won out and he poured me a coffee. I thanked him with a dazzling smile, then reached for a piece of cantaloupe. As the dead man's fingers brushed the fruit, I decided I was more in the mood for muffins.

Angelique's eyes went round. "You still eat carbs? Oh, my lord, you're so brave."

"Not really," I said with a laugh. "I'll pay for it when I can't do up my skirt later."

I took a big bite and chewed with relish. Angelique tried not to drool.

"I'm a sucker for comfort food," I said. "And after last night, I need it. I'm used to getting a lot more advance warning than that. My nerves are still recovering."

Grady thawed enough to speak. "It was rather more sudden than I like."

"I hope to God there won't be any more. No one mentioned warm-up seances to me."

"Nor to me." Claudia cut a muffin in half and took one piece. "I'm going to have a talk with Becky."

"Good. I'm not used to working that way. I felt awful about interrupting Angelique." I turned to her. "I'm very sorry. My nerves were just frazzled."

She studied my face, as if looking for a catch, then slowly nodded. "I might have been a little jumpy myself. I'm not used to being on camera."

"You specialize in live shows too, don't you? TV is a whole different medium, and I don't do a lot of it yet." I grinned over at Grady. "But we have a pro on the set. Maybe if we're nice, he'll pass some tips our way."

"Oh, good, everyone's here," Becky said as she swung through the door. "Did you all get breakfast? I'm so sorry I'm late."

She collapsed into the chair beside mine. I filled her coffee cup.

"Thank you. You have no idea how much I need this. I've been up half the night. First, calling Mr. Simon, who insisted on hearing the results of the Tansy Laneseance. Then he had me get the researchers to work confirming Jaime's facts."

"And how does it look?" Grady asked.

Becky slid a worried glance my way. "Well, I hate to be the bearer of ill news but—"

She reached over to a telephone on the side table. The top line was flashing. A press of the buttons and…

"They're all here, Mr. Simon."

Shit. Becky had no problem chewing out Angelique last night, but apparently I deserved different treatment—a direct reprimand from the producer himself. I braced myself.

"Only got a minute, folks." Simon spoke so fast I had to concentrate to keep up. "First, let me say how absolutely devastated I was that I couldn't be there last night. I was dying to meet you all. Heh, heh, that's probably not the best phrase to use with you folks, is it? Jaime. Jaime, hon?"

"Uh, here, Mr. Simon."

"Todd. Call me Todd. I hear you struck a home run last night. Hit the ball out of the park."

Becky grinned at me.

Simon continued. "Every question right, our researchers tell me. That is fucking amazing, pardon my French, folks."

As Grady and Angelique's faces hardened, I chastised myself. I had to be careful when I really did contact ghosts as part of a show— getting enough answers correct to maintain credibility, but not so many that colleagues would accuse me of rigging things.

Simon continued, "So I just wanted to call and say 'atta girl.' You're the real deal, Jaime Vegas. Soon the whole world will know it and believe me, no one is more thrilled about that than I am. You ever been in
Vanity Fair
, Jaime?"

"Urn, no."

"Well, I'm lining something up for you right now. Know some people. Making some calls. My gift to you."

"Uh, thank you."

"Angel? Brad?"

"Yes, Todd?" Grady said.

"That's Mr. Simon to you, sir." Simon gave a laugh that could be interpreted as "I'm kidding," but suggested he wasn't. "Angel, sweetie, I gave you this big chance to get your pretty little ass out of the corn fields, and you aren't showing me the love."

"I—" she began.

"Brad, you're going to get your chance soon, and I expect results. That salary of yours is killing the budget. Don't make me regret it. Comprendes, amigo?"

"We understand," Claudia said.

"Good, good. Just so we're all on the same page, folks. Now, gotta run, gotta run, but I will be watching. Do me proud."

The line went dead. It took sixty seconds for Angelique, Grady and Claudia to remember previous engagements and clear the room. So much for smoothing things over.

I HAD a magazine interview at nine sharp—barely enough time to brush my teeth after breakfast. The interview part went smoothly. Then they wanted to take pictures… in the garden. Of course they'd want the garden—the house was half furnished and partially under construction.

All I could think about was photos of me, wide-eyed and jumpy as those damnable spirits tormented me. I panicked. I started babbling excuses about bad lighting and allergies. The harried photographer, who probably had a full schedule ahead of him, decided he didn't need to start his day this way and suggested the article could run without my photo. That wouldn't be good. Hit a certain age, and if your picture is missing in an article, people start to suspect there's a reason, especially when your costars' photos are there.

So I gave in… and it was every bit as hellish as I'd imagined. The spirits poked. They prodded. They whispered in my ear. And I had to ignore them and look like I was having the time of my life, which only made them poke and prod all the harder. By the time the session was over, my nerves were shot.

This had to end. I needed to figure out what these ghosts were and banish them before they ruined the shoot.

I LEFT the house by the front door and walked to clear my head. Normally, after a block in heels, my feet would have been screaming for me to stop, but if they were, I was too preoccupied to hear them.

Why couldn't I communicate with these ghosts? Spooks do play pranks on necromancers, but if that was the case, the dogwood bark and dried mate should have warded them off.

Souls can also get trapped in dimensional portals, but I'd encountered those and knew that wasn't the explanation here. Nor were they demons or demidemons or demideities. Again, been there, done that. Robert Vasic, the council research expert, always tells me I should keep a journal of my experiences for his records, to help others necromancers with odd cases, since I seem to have encountered them all. I think he's kidding, but I'm never sure. Just as I'm not sure whether my breadth of experience has more to do with untapped power or a talent for stumbling into trouble.

My gut told me these were normal ghosts in an abnormal situation. But how did they get there—in a place where they could touch me, but couldn't materialize or communicate?

One answer: black magic.

When it came to black magic, I had an excellent source of information. A former leading teacher of the art—and one who did not fulfill that "those who can't, teach" cliche. My absent spirit guide, Eve Levine.

Also known as "dark" or "chaotic" magic, black magic isn't necessarily evil. It's a blanket term for all magic with a potentially negative outcome. Like a spell to kill someone. You could use it for evil, but you're more likely to use it in self-defense. But the only type of magic likely to affect ghosts was the darkest of the dark arts: ritual sacrifice.

Human sacrifice is rare. Some dark-arts practitioners never conduct such rituals. Had Eve? It's not something you ask a friend about, but I'd guess that she had, though only when she'd needed to kill an enemy and decided his death might as well serve another purpose. That was Eve—never cruel, but coldly practical in a way I couldn't fathom, just as I couldn't fathom living a life where you
had
enemies you needed to kill.

When I reached the Brentwood Market, I headed around back, out of sight of passing traffic, took out Eve's ring and tried contacting her again, putting all my concentration into it, hoping that somehow, wherever she was, I could break through. After a couple of minutes, the air shimmered—the first sign of a ghost coming through.

"Oh, thank God! Eve, I need you-"

A man materialized. A big man—tall and solidly built, in his late forties with thinning blond hair and bright blue eyes.

"Kristof," I said. "I didn't call you. I called—"

"Eve, I know." He cast a look around the lot, nose wrinkling slightly, then brushed off the front of his suit jacket, as if it might have been soiled in the transition. "You've been trying to get through to her for a while, and obviously something's wrong, so I thought I should find out what you want." He checked his watch.

"If I'm keeping you, Kristof—"

"I'm in court, but I requested a ten-minute recess."

An afterlife with lawyers, three-piece suits and wristwatches. If I ever needed proof that Kristof Nast had ended up in a hell dimension, this was it.

"Is there some way you can get Eve for me?"

"I can try. She isn't supposed to be disturbed, but if it's urgent, I can petition for a special allowance. I presume it's urgent?"

Something in his gaze begged me to say it was, but with Kristof, it was wise to be wary. "Well, I'm not sure it's
urgent
—"

"If you say it's urgent, that's all I need."

Ah. So I wasn't the only one Eve was out of contact with. That's why he was here. Certainly not to help me. My only contact with Kristof in life—not in person, but through his employees, naturally— had not been one to encourage friendship. Eve was the only thing we had in common.

"If you did get access and it wasn't for something important, would Eve be pissed off?"

"Hardly. She'd welcome the break." His eyes glittered. "I'd even go so far as to say she'd be grateful."

"So, wherever she is, she isn't there by choice?"

His smile faded. "You know I'm not allowed to discuss that. But if you need her, which you obviously do, I can petition—"

"And if it's not urgent, would Eve get in trouble?"

That stopped him. "There's no way for her to know what you might consider urgent…" Another pause, then a sigh. "Is it urgent?"

It was. To me. But I suspected "saving Jaime Vegas from pestering spooks" wasn't a problem you should petition deities to fix, so I said, "Not really."

He swore under his breath. Then asked, reluctantly, "Is there anything I can do?"

He hated offering. But she'd
want
him to offer, and that's what counted.

I could ask him about ritual sacrifice. But sorcerers like Kristof Nast don't conduct dark magic rites—they hire people to do them. So I thanked him for his time, then watched him go.

TIME TO reach out to others. Jeremy had suggested Paige and Lucas, and that was the logical next step. Paige was the witch member of the interracial council. At twenty-seven, she was the youngest delegate, as well as the most energetic. Just watching her work was tiring.

For Paige, helping supernaturals was a life mission. Together with her husband, Lucas, she ran a legal-firm-cum-detective-agency devoted to protecting supernaturals from the Cabals—the corporate Mafia of our world. The fact that Lucas's father was CEO of the most powerful of those Cabals made their lives all the more complicated.

They would help, of course… as soon as they could. The spirits weren't going anywhere, and I wasn't in mortal danger. Whomever they were helping right now probably
was
in mortal danger. So they couldn't be expected to drop everything for me, but I knew they wouldn't turn me down if I showed up on their doorstep and only asked for an hour or two of their time. I could run the problem past them, get their input and ask them to point me to their library or computer files, so I could do the research myself.

According to my schedule, I only had one work obligation today. I was supposed to sit in on some discussions with the parapsycholo-gists—playing "interviewer" as they explained their methods—but Angelique could take my place. In fact, if I suggested it, the offer might go a long way toward easing the animosity between us.

Now for an excuse… I decided to use my mother, claiming she was ill and needed me. Most people would feel guilty using a parent like that, but the way I see it, it's a fair exchange. She used me for years. Still does. Her spot in the retirement village costs more than my condo in Chicago, and she isn't the one paying for it.

Last time I heard from my mother had been when she'd decided she wanted to upgrade her monthly spa package. When I argued, she'd used her usual threat: to tell the tabloids about my abortion at sixteen, conveniently leaving out the fact that she'd arranged it and I'd thought I was going to the doctor for a prenatal checkup. I'd paid for the upgrade, as I always did, not so much because her threat worried me but because it was easier to throw money at her than to deal with her. A coward's ploy, maybe, but with some wounds, slapping on a bandage and pretending it isn't there is easier than dealing with the pain.